Not actually quiet. The neighborhood was still popping and fizzing two blocks over, and I could hear my own backyard laughing at something I'd missed. But kitchen-quiet. Sink-quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you realize you've been performing hostess-face since nine in the morning and your cheeks are tired in a way that has nothing to do with smiling.

So I stayed. I rinsed the cutting board slower than any cutting board has ever needed rinsing. I stood at the open window with a glass of water and watched the light go gold over the fence, and somewhere under the table the dog — who has strong opinions about firecrackers — thumped her tail once, as if to say, finally, someone sensible.

Ten minutes. That's all it was. Nobody outside noticed I'd gone, which used to be the thing I worried about and is now the thing I count on.